


Survivor; Enslaved

by Triskaidekalogue



Series: HSO 2011 ficbits [7]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ancestors, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-19
Updated: 2011-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-26 06:40:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triskaidekalogue/pseuds/Triskaidekalogue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The nameless slave shall be a thrall in a strange country; the seas shall make a gaol for her and she shall abide in it.</p><p><strong>[Warning for slavery and possible mind control.]</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	Survivor; Enslaved

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [LJ user hollow_laughter's soundtrack](http://hs-olympics.livejournal.com/9563.html?thread=1436251#t1436251) in HSO Bonus Round 2B.

Before she was the Dolorosa, she was the Guardian, and before she was the Guardian, she was the Vestalis. Now, though, all titles have been washed from her, even the one created to make an example of her bereavement, and she is merely the slave. (She doesn't mind that. She has suffered far greater losses than names, and better anonymous slave than mark of broken rebellion, symbol of futility and grief.)

The slave isn't sure how much her mistress knows, though. Sometimes she sees the Marquise looking at her with the oddest expression, at once hunger-heated and coolly calculating, and she can't help remembering that same expression directed toward the Orphaner not a week ago.

Yet she is completely unprepared when she's summoned to the Marquise's block later that night.

"Close the door behind you," her mistress says as she enters. "And come here."

The slave obeys, and with a scrape that promises future commands to resand and reseal, the Marquise drags her chair around to inspect her.

"Filthy," she drawls. The slave can't tell if it's disgust or satisfaction thickening her voice. "When's the last time Dualscar hosed the lot of you down?"

A strange line of questioning. "When he bought us, mistress," the slave replies. Ablution is hardly a priority on ships, when sweet water is so precious and the rainfall ever unreliable.

Dread rises in the back of her mind. Surely the Marquise isn't going to involve her any further in her little games --

"Look at me when I'm talking to you."

She raises her eyes.

"Better." The Marquise's fangs are bared in a cheerfully parodic smile. "Now, that simply won't do. You did me a _service_ the other night, my mysterious greenblood, and no one can say Spinneret Mindfang doesn't reward good service! See that liquid aggregating vessel over there?"

"Yes, mistress," she says. The vessel in question, equipped with an inbuilt tap, is wedged in a corner over the ablution trap.

"Use it to fill the trap and get yourself cleaned up."

"Yes, mistress," she says again, blankly, and goes to turn the tap. In short order the trap is half filled, as full as is wise for anything subject to a ship's constant sway.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" her mistress demands when she makes no move other than to twist the tap back closed. "Off with those rags and in with you."

Still she hesitates. It's certain that the Marquise is plotting toward something, likely caliginous in nature, but she can hardly refuse to obey. And the water rippling in the ablution trap is so extravagantly, blessedly clear; she could almost swear the absence of salt is something she can smell from where she stands. With little else left to her, it would be good to feel like a person again...

The Marquise is smirking. She wonders how much of her thoughts she can truly call her own.

She pulls the sorry shirt over her head anyway, careful not to catch it on her hooked horn, and drapes it over the edge of the trap. Her trousers and underthings follow shortly. A slave cannot disobey her orders, but perhaps she can subvert them: by taking pleasure in this gift when she's meant to second-guess herself, by allowing herself that moment of personhood despite guilt and grief. She quells her trepidation, mentally folding it smaller and smaller until she can tuck it away for future examination.

Entering the trap, the slave catches sight of her mistress's eyes. They're dark with fervor -- covetousness -- tracking her every move. Oh, she thinks, but it's too late and she's determined to carry on as she'd planned even if her thoracic cavity is roiling with fear, surprise, revulsion. Curiosity?

A bar of purificatory agent balances on the vessel's top. She makes good use of it, rubbing away at the crusted salt and sweat and pitch covering her, scrubbing with ragged claws until angry green lines stand out on her skin. Then she drains the trap into the bilge and twists the tap again to rinse the lather off, and when she's sluiced the last of the water from her hair, the Marquise tosses her a towel.

The towel has fresh clothing wrapped inside it. Outer garments, dyed, their color still discernible: a rich royal blue that will stand out among the other slaves. She dries off and dresses herself in blue, and there's something disturbingly soft in the Marquise's expression.

"Better," she repeats. "I'll have the towel back. You can go now. Take the rags with you and dispose of them."

On her way out the slave makes herself meet her mistress's eyes. I know what you're doing, she says silently. The Marquise gives no indication of having heard.

As the sun rises she drifts off to dreams of the small, stubborn troll she once held in her arms, and she survives another night.


End file.
